


Ask About My Conscience (I Offer You My Soul)

by Ithiel_Dragon



Series: Blessed Are The Peacemakers [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 3: Clemens Point (Red Dead Redemption 2), Drama, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Red Dead Redemption: Undead Nightmare spoilers (kinda), Romance, Video Game: Red Dead Redemption (2010)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-20 02:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16547552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithiel_Dragon/pseuds/Ithiel_Dragon
Summary: John finds something he wasn't meant to find, and makes him wonder if he's been wrong about everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't think of a title, okay? But I think it's still fitting. I still haven't finished playing the game yet, but I couldn't resist starting this fic. So if there are any contradictions, just think of it as an AU.

He’d found it while collecting a bucket of water.  It was only a crumpled up piece of paper. He wasn’t even sure what had made him pause when he saw it.  He typically wasn’t in the habit of picking up trash along the riverbank.  But this time he had and… seeing what was on it had shaken him to his core. 

It was ruined.  Obviously. Soaked in water, and stained with mud.  The almost delicate lines and careful shading severely smudged by the harsh creases in the paper.  Still, it was surprisingly… beautiful. The likeness of him close enough that John might have blushed had anyone else found the drawing other than him.  He couldn’t stop looking at it. The paper felt fragile, ready to fall apart in his hands with the slightest fumbling. It was a fitting metaphor for their actual relationship, now that he thought about it.  

He knew exactly when the drawing had been done.  And by whom. The sun hadn’t even been fully up yet when John had rode back into camp.  He’d been practically coated in mud, and knowing the lecture he’d receive if he didn’t bathe before Miss Grimshaw saw him, he’d headed straight to the river.  He’d been right in the middle of his bath when Arthur had sat down not far away. John had ignored him, because these days it was just… easier that way. He wasn’t even certain that Arthur had noticed him, the older man seemed so engrossed in his journal the few glances John dared to give him.  John finished his bath as quickly as he could and left as soon as possible. Nothing about the moment had been out of the ordinary.

He’d been so sure Arthur hated him.  He certainly acted like he did ever since John had returned to the gang.  Hell, the first time Arthur had seen him after John had come back, the man had punched him so hard he’d nearly dislocated his jaw.  It was… not really a surprising reaction, he supposed. Things hadn’t really gotten better since then, and… yeah, it was disappointing.  It hurt. But… he couldn’t exactly blame Arthur feeling the way he did.

Now… John wasn’t sure what to think as he cradled the drawing in his hands.  He just couldn’t imagine _this_ being drawn by a man who hated him.  What did it mean then? John sighed heavily, letting his head fall back against the tree he was sitting against and looked up at the sky through the canopy. 

When John messed up… he usually messed up bad.  That was no secret.

It had been his idea to go out drinking that night.  That was probably the first sign things would go to hell.  But… he’d just needed to get out of camp for the night. Away from the sounds of the crying baby and the looks Abigail kept giving him.  Things had been tense for months when Abigail had been pregnant, and it was even worse now. Everyone kept saying the boy was his… and god… John really hoped not.  For the boy’s sake if nothing else. He wasn’t a good man. Wasn’t worth being _anyone’s_ father, and never would be.  Despite all this, Abigail still seemed to care for him, he had no idea why, and…

He’d just needed to get away.  For a while. Clear his head or at least drown it in booze.  He’d dragged Arthur along with him because… well… the man had looked like he’d needed the exact same thing. 

His relationship with Arthur had always been… confusing.  John had been twelve when Dutch found him. He’d been living on the streets, doing what he had to survive, whether it meant begging, stealing, or fucking for his next meal.  He’d… been in a bad place. A real bad place. But then Dutch had taken him in and, things had changed. Arthur, twenty-two at the time, had been like an older brother to him.  Taught him everything he knew from riding and thieving to shooting. John had looked up to Arthur almost as much as Dutch. 

As he got older… things began to change.  Arthur could be a real sour son of a bitch most of the time, but other times… the rare times he smiled or laughed, it made John’s heart flutter like a damned fool.  A friendly slap to his back, or a large hand clasping his shoulder, could make John weak in the knees for hours. Then late one night he’d caught sight of Arthur in his tent with one of the camp girls, grunting and sweating together like animals, and John had gotten harder than he ever had in his life.

That was when he realized he didn't want to be _like_ Arthur. He just _wanted_ Arthur. 

John hadn't known what to do with those feelings.  He knew some people… enjoyed that kind of thing.  John certainly hadn’t enjoyed any of the things he’d let men do to him before he’d joined Dutch’s gang.  But with Arthur… maybe it would be different? He knew Arthur, rough as he was, would never _hurt_ him.  Not like that.  But John knew damned well what ‘decent’ folk thought of sodomy, and while Dutch and the gang were far more open minded about many things… John never got the courage to ask what any of them thought about _that_.  He couldn’t bear the thought of Dutch, Hosea, or god forbid, Arthur looking at him with disgust for desiring another man. 

So John pushed down those feelings.  Did his best to ignore and forget them.  The last thing John wanted was to ruin his friendship with Arthur wishing for something he could never have.  But then… Mary Linton came along. John had never seen Arthur so happy as when he was courting that woman and… He wanted to be happy for Arthur.  He pretended to be, whenever Arthur went on and on about how wonderful she was. In truth though, every time he saw them together, saw Arthur smile at her in a way he wished Arthur would smile at _him_ , jealousy burned like hot poison in John’s gut. 

When Abigail joined the gang, it had been something of a respite.  They got along almost immediately.  He liked her, and she liked him. Being with her had distracted him from his feelings for Arthur enough he could almost pretend he forgot them entirely.  That was something John definitely needed, especially when Arthur started talking about marriage of all things. Then… things started going downhill again when Abigail told him she was pregnant.  The baby… sure, there was a chance it might have been his. Just as likely it wasn’t though.  He weren’t the only man Abigail had been with during that time. So how could she be so sure it was his then?

Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, one day Arthur returned to camp looking as though he’d just been gutted.  If he’d thought seeing Arthur head over heels and making a fool of himself over Mary Linton was bad, watching her break his heart was so much worse.  For days Arthur moped around camp, snarling at everyone like a dog that had been whipped one too many times. John had kept his distance, sure he’d only make things worse if he tried helping.  It was Hosea who finally came to him demanding he _do_ something.  He and Arthur were friends after all, good friends, if there was anyone Arthur might listen to…

So, John had done the only thing he could think to and it turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

He’d known neither of them would be in much of a state to make it back to camp that night, so John had rented them a room before they’d even walked into the saloon.  Arthur seemed intent on giving himself alcohol poisoning over the next several hours, and John wasn’t that far behind him. He’d ended up practically carrying Arthur out near midnight, the older man singing at the top of his lungs while he hung off John as they made their way down the street.  John had been forced to clap a hand over Arthur’s mouth once they made it inside, since he really didn’t want them to be thrown out, or god forbid in jail, for making a ruckus.

Arthur responded by giggling like a school boy and licked his hand.  When John squawked indignantly, Arthur only laughed hard enough to snort ridiculously.  John started snickering as well in spite of himself, and dragged Arthur up the stairs as quickly as possible before they could make even bigger fools of themselves.  When he finally managed to shut the door behind them, John sighed with relief. Arthur was still giggling uncontrollably.

“You damned fool…” John muttered, and he felt Arthur grin under his hand.  It was then he realized he should probably take his hand back, and started to do just that.  He wasn’t expecting Arthur to grab his wrist, his reflexes still pretty damned good despite how drunk he was.  They stared at each other for several long moments, and something in Arthur’s eyes made John’s heart beat faster.  Then Arthur brought John’s fingers back to his mouth and... John’s breath hitched, his eyes wide as saucers, as he felt Arthur’s tongue slide over his fingers.  Arthur smiled as best he could with John’s fingers in his mouth, and took them even deeper, sucking on them like they was… something else.

John instantly felt light headed due to all his blood rushing south.  He groaned before he could help it. His eyelids fluttering.

“Arthur…” his voice was a mix of a question and a plea.  Arthur sucked hard on his fingers one last time, leaving John practically shaking when he finally let them free with a wet pop.  Then Arthur’s hands were cradling his face, touching him more gently then he ever had before, before bringing their mouths together. 

It was heaven.  Pure and simple.  Probably the only heaven he’d ever know given the life he led.  John groaned in pleasure into the kiss, his hands clutching at the other man’s broad shoulders.  Arthur walked him backwards, never breaking their kiss, until John’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he practically fell down on it. 

Arthur overbalanced and as drunk as he was, landed on top of John with enough force to knock the air out of him with an oomph.  Even as he fought to catch his breath, John couldn’t say he minded all that much. Arthur looked down at him with the fondest expression, the same one that John had always wished could be directed at him.  Now that it was… it left him feeling even more breathless.

Then Arthur was kissing him again, deep and needy, and John’s hands couldn’t stop moving.  Pushing under clothing almost desperately to get at hot naked skin. There was the sound of ripping fabric, and a few buttons went flying.  Arthur’s mouth left a molten trail down his jaw and throat. His stubble scratching slightly at fragile skin in the best way possible.

John wasn’t sure where his shirt went, and he didn’t care.  Not when Arthur’s mouth closed around his nipple, sucking and licking, teasing the sensitive flesh almost to the point of pain.  The sounds coming from John, one might have thought he was being tortured. Hell, in a way, it was. Arthur’s mouth moved from one nipple to the other, giving it the same treatment, before he began to move lower. 

John was panting as Arthur licked his way down his stomach, his tongue playing teasingly around his belly button while his fingers worked at the fastenings to his pants.  Before he knew it his pants were around his ankles and Arthur’s lips were around his cock. John was forced to clap his own hand over his mouth to keep from shouting to the heavens and waking the whole damned hotel. 

His fingers tangled in Arthur’s hair as the older man's head bobbed over his lap.  Arthur taking him so damned deep he could feel the head of his cock hitting the back of the man’s throat. 

“Easy…” John cautioned.  Arthur simply looked up at him through the fall of his hair and moaned. John shuddered in response.  Then Arthur squeezed his ass, making John buck into his mouth unintentionally. He started to apologize, but Arthur merely groaned obscenely around him and took him even deeper… and John was certain he was going to die before this was all over.

“Fuck.. Fuck, Arthur…” he muttered over and over, his balls started to clench and he knew he was going to come any second now. He tried to warn Arthur by tugging on his hair, “Shit… Arthur… I’m gonna…”

He didn’t expect Arthur to actually… stop. The sudden feeling of cool air against his aching cock was shock.  But he probably would have come anyway if Arthur hadn’t suddenly squeezed around the base of his cock.  Keeping him right on the edge and making John swear profusely. 

When John finally got his breathing back under control, he looked up at Arthur who was staring at him with that little too pleased smirk that John both loved and hated. 

“You alright?” Arthur asked, and when John nodded, the older man finally eased his grip around his cock.  John groaned softly, he was so damned hard it almost hurt. Arthur apologized by running his hand soothingly along John’s hip, “Easy, now.  I’ll let you come in my mouth some other time. Right now there’s somewhere else I want you to come.”

Arthur’s filthy words made John’s entire body flood with heat. 

“Arthur… fuck…” John muttered breathlessly, and the older man grinned.

“That’s the idea,” Arthur replied, giving him a cheeky wink, and… John’s brain shut off after that.  He watched as Arthur fumbled around in the satchel he never seemed to go anywhere without, then a tin was pressed into his hand. John could only stare at Arthur in disbelief. He couldn’t really want… that… could he? 

Arthur started undoing the buckle on his belt, but when John didn’t move, a small frown pulled at his lips. 

“What’s wrong?  Don’t you want to?” Arthur asked, and how the hell was John even supposed to answer that?

“It’s not that… I just… I don’t want to hurt you…” John finally managed to mutter, and Arthur actually laughed. 

“Your cock ain’t that big, Marston,” Arthur joked, and John looked away, embarrassed. Arthur stopped laughing.  There was absolute silence for a few moments, and then he heard Arthur shift beside him, and then a gentle hand was on his cheek.  Urging him to look at the older man once more.

“Hey now, I was just kidding.  You’re not going to hurt me. Trust me,” Arthur said, running his fingers carefully through John’s hair. 

“I do,” John whispered, and Arthur smiled leaning in to kiss him again.  He could taste the salty bitterness of his own precum in Arthur’s mouth and he couldn’t help but moan softly.  Arthur definitely seemed pleased by the reaction.

“Good,” Arthur replied, then laid down on the bed, giving John an inviting look, “Now get your ass over here and fuck me before I change my mind.”

He didn’t need to tell John twice.

Arthur’s pants, and any remaining clothing between them, was removed in record time.  John wasn’t sure what the grease in the tin was supposed to be used for normally, nor did he really care, as long as it did the trick.  When he first pushed two slick fingers inside the other man, he couldn’t believe how hot and tight he felt. While John would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t still worried about accidentally hurting Arthur, the sounds the older man was making certainly didn’t seem like ones of pain.   

Before long Arthur was squirming and demanding more, impatient bastard that he was.  So John slicked up his cock with more of the grease and knelt between Arthur’s legs.

“You sure?” He asked one more time, and Arthur groaned impatiently.

“Marston, either you fuck me now, or I’m tossing you on your back and riding your-” was all Arthur managed before his words were cut off by a loud moan as John filled him with his cock.  As tempting as the image of Arthur riding him was, John definitely wasn’t giving up the opportunity to have Arthur under him like this. To feel Arthur’s thighs wrap around him, urging him in even deeper.  To watch Arthur’s face go slack with ecstasy as John filled him up to the hilt. It was perfect… so damned perfect it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

“Arthur…”

“I ain’t made of glass, John.  Come on…” Arthur whispered, his fingers digging bruises into his back, and John finally let loose.  Fucking Arthur just like he’d always wanted to. Like he’d always dreamed of doing. Arthur encouraging him every step of the way with broken off words and groans of pleasure. 

He wrapped his slick fingers around Arthur’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts.  Arthur cursed, his eyes practically rolling back, as he came all over his chest and John’s hand.  Arthur clenching around his cock practically like a vice was more than enough to tip John over the edge with him.  He ended up practically collapsed on top of the older man, his heart racing, and panting as though he’d tried racing a train on foot. 

Eventually Arthur grunted uncomfortably and John scrambled to get off him, even though his muscles still felt like water.  Seeing his own cum leaking from Arthur’s body did things to him he couldn’t quite define. 

John cleared his throat as Arthur reached for one of their shirts off the floor and started wiping himself off.

“You okay?” John asked cautiously, and the soft hum that Arthur gave him in response didn’t really set his mind at ease.  Arthur had seemed to enjoy himself but…

“I’m going to sleep,” Arthur finally said, and threw the soiled shirt on the floor again before rolling over.  John chewed on his lip, unsure what to do. Eventually Arthur made an impatient sound, “You going to lay down, or just look at me all night?”

John rolled his eyes, but didn’t hesitate spooning up next to the other man and throwing his arm around his waist.  He pressed a soft kiss to Arthur’s shoulder and received a sleepy grunt in response.

“You’re an ass, you know that?” John said, but it wasn’t without fondness.

“You love my ass,” Arthur muttered in reply, and John chuckled. 

“Yeah…”

Needless to say, John didn’t wake up till near noon the next day.  His head felt like a railroad spike had been driven through it, and his mouth tasted like something had died in it. The room smelled like a cheap whore house.  A mixture of stale sweat, booze, and sex. A rather unappealing combination. But despite the pounding in his skull, and his stomach feeling like it was trying to crawl up his throat, he’d never been happier. 

He pressed closer to the warm body in front of him, burrowing his nose in the back of Arthur’s neck. John still couldn’t quite believe it had happened. That it hadn’t been some vivid alcohol induced hallucination. It wouldn’t have surprised him if it was. But waking up with Arthur in his arms was more than worth the hangover that was bound to torture him the next couple days.

He’d begun pressing soft kisses along the back of the older man’s neck and shoulder when he felt Arthur begin to stir.  Arthur had drunk way more than he had last night, so he’d probably be feeling the effects even worse than John. He considered getting up for some cold water, or even making a quick trip to the general store for a couple tonics that might help ease the pain. But before he could do either, Arthur started mumbling in his sleep. Most of it was unintelligible, but one word was definitely clear.

“Mary…”

John froze.  His chest felt like it had been kicked in by a horse.  He forgot how to breathe.

There was no way Arthur had been unaware of who he’d been with last night.  But the man had still been three sheets to the wind. He might have practically demanded John fuck him… but that didn’t mean it was what he really wanted.   _Who_ he really wanted.  How could John have been so stupid… how could he have thought…

John pulled away from Arthur as though he’d been burned.  His heart began to race in panic and his stomach threatened to empty its contents for an entirely different reason.  If Arthur woke up and found John with him… when he realized what John had done to him… Arthur would kill him. Literally kill him.  The amount of guilt he felt welling up to choke him, John might have let him.

Instead, John found himself scrambling up from the bed, doing his best not to wake Arthur.  Though he probably didn’t even need to bother trying to be silent. The older man was still completely passed out from last night.  Guilt twisted like a knife in his chest a little more. He threw on his clothes and all but ran out of the room.

John hadn’t gone back to camp.  After a few days, he began to feel like a damned fool about the whole thing.  He’d wondered if maybe he’d overreacted. Nearly every minute of every hour he thought about going back.  But his own pride and fear of what Arthur’s reaction would be kept him away for weeks. When he finally found the balls to go looking for the gang, he found their camp had already moved.  John took it as a sign, and decided it would be best for everyone if he stayed away. For himself, for Abigail, and especially for Arthur. For nearly a year he’d done just that…

Until a near chance encounter had pulled him back in.  Arthur hadn’t tried to kill him… well, at least he hadn’t tried after Dutch and Hosea had managed to drag Arthur off him after punching his lights out.  After that though, Arthur had barely looked at him. If he did interact with him for some reason, it was usually just to snarl or otherwise berate him for anything he did.  It barely got any better in the couple years that followed. Sometimes John wished Dutch and Hosea would have just let Arthur beat him to a pulp. It might have been better that way in the end...

But now John had found this drawing and… he wondered if he’d been wrong about everything.  He needed… he needed to talk to Arthur.  It was past time. They needed to put this behind them… one way or another. 

Right now Arthur was off with Dutch and Micah.  He wasn’t exactly sure what for, but it must have been important how quickly they’d rode out.  He was determined talk to Arthur as soon as he got back… but it was near nightfall when Dutch and Micah finally returned to camp. 

Arthur wasn’t with them...


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur hadn’t been cold like this for a long time.  Maybe not ever. The wind seemed to go straight through the layers of clothing he wore, right down into his bones.  Trying to escape through the mountains after Blackwater might have been more of a death sentence than salvation. They’d already lost so many…

Now John…

Arthur didn’t know what he would do if John was dead too. 

Most of the others thought he hated John Marston.  They were half right. Sometimes it was all Arthur could do not to knock Marston’s teeth down his throat.  It was only Dutch’s clear warning that any more physical altercations between the two of them wouldn’t be tolerated that stopped him.  Dutch really was too soft on the boy…

Other times, it was all he could do not to grab Marston by the neck, shake him like a ragdoll, and then kiss him breathless.  All the while demanding _why_ .  Why had John run off like that?  Why had John _left him_?

Fear of that answer always stopped him.

So instead, the two of them did their best to stay as far clear of each other as they could.  Not at all easy, given their small knit community. But somehow they’d managed, for near two years now.  When they _were_ forced to work together, Arthur was professional, if a bit more snarky to the younger man than he’d be to most others.  Marston usually gave back just as good as Arthur dolled out, only pissing him off further. But that never stopped Arthur from watching John’s back. Always making sure he came back to Abigail and his boy, whether John appreciated that or not. 

Now, a cold even worse than what covered the mountain had settled in Arthur’s heart.  Because John was still missing from yesterday, when Dutch had sent him out scouting in the storm.  He’d tried to put on a brave face in front of Abigail, because that was what she needed. But in truth… Arthur was terrified.  Arthur was half frozen and he’d had a warm bed to sleep in the night before. The chances of someone surviving out in this storm with no shelter all night...

He’d never been much of a tracker, but thankfully Javier _was_.  If anyone could find the boy out in this frozen hell, it was him. 

Finding John’s dead horse certainly hadn’t put Arthur’s mind at ease, but at least they were on the right track.  Just how the hell had Marston made it all the way out here? He was lucky he hadn’t ridden right off a cliff in the blinding snow. 

It wasn’t until they heard John call out weakly over the wind that the fear twisting in Arthur’s heart began to ease somewhat.  He was alive. Thank fucking Jesus. But then, to their horror, the next time John called out it wasn’t a plea for help. It was an agonized cry of pain. 

Arthur ran ahead of Javier.  Not giving a damn how slippery the terrain was, and how even one small misstep could send him tumbling down the mountainside.  John was screaming. Screaming like he was being torn apart… and Arthur could hear the horrendous growling and howling of wolves on the hunt.  Arthur thought nothing could be worse than hearing John scream like that. But then… the screaming stopped… No… no…

When they finally found him… there wasn’t much left.  John’s face stared up at them with wide eyes, frozen in terror in death.  He was covered in his own blood. His guts torn out and scattered around him.  The snow was painted a ghastly scarlet, though it was quickly being covered up by fresh snow. 

Arthur dropped to his knees.  His hand covering his own mouth to silence the grieving wail that wanted to escape.  He no longer even felt the cold around him, having gone completely numb.

Too late… he was always too late to save the ones he loved. 

 

* * *

 

Arthur came awake hogtied on a damned horse.  Events came back to him in bits and pieces through the veil of pain and confusion enveloping him.  Riding out with Dutch and Micah. They’d all known it was probably going to be a trap, but they’d gone anyway.  Stupid. Fucking stupid. It _had_ been a trap.  But not for Dutch.  He’d been so intent on watching Dutch’s back, he hadn’t been watching his own.  Now he was here…

He fucking hated getting shot. 

From what he could see from his limited vantage point, there were several men on horses surrounding him.  Even if he somehow managed to get out of the ropes holding him, he wasn’t going to get away unseen.  Not now. He needed to bide his time. If they hadn’t killed him yet, they probably weren’t going to anytime soon.

He just… needed to keep his head… conserve his strength… plan…

Easier said than done, given how much pain he was in.  He tried to look around, to see if he could recognize where they were headed.  But the pain and dizziness was too much, and soon he felt himself slipping back into unconsciousness. 

 

* * *

 

Of all that things he thought he’d be doing today, rustling sheep definitely wasn’t one of them.  John was just about as useless as he usually was. Only more so given that he’d never worked on a ranch before. How the hell had he planned on pulling this job off if Arthur hadn’t come along?

Idiot.

But at least it was done now.  Though Arthur still bristled at losing eighteen percent of their profit.  And people called _them_ criminals! 

He definitely felt the need for a drink by the time he met Dutch in the saloon. 

Only they were interrupted by Leviticus Cornwall himself and his men.  Just how the hell had the bastard tracked them down here? He supposed that didn’t really matter right now, because the bastards had John and Strauss. 

One of the fuckers had a knife to John’s throat, using the younger man as a shield.  It was a risky shot. If he was off by even a small amount, or if John shifted the wrong way, he could end up shooting John instead of the bastard threatening him. 

Arthur reached for his gun… but he was too slow. 

His bullet blew a hole clean through the head of the man holding John, but not before a line of red was opened up along John’s throat.  Arthur lurched forward as John fell, blood pouring like a river down his front. Arthur didn’t give a shit about the bullets whizzing by his head as he gathered John in his arms, his hands going uselessly to the wound at his neck.  His fingers quickly became coated in red as John drowned in his own blood.

And there was nothing he could do.  Nothing...

 

* * *

 

The next time Arthur woke he was hanging upside down like an animal waiting to be bled out and butchered.  What was worse, he had unfortunate pleasure of being greeted by Colm O’driscoll himself.

The man always made his skin crawl.  Even without the blood feud between Dutch and Colm, the man disgusted him.  He’d heard stories. Knew what Colm liked to do to boys that were young and pretty enough to catch his eye.  Kieran was probably lucky he made it away from the O’driscoll’s before Colm could take notice of him. Arthur was thankful that he was neither young nor pretty and all the attention he received from the bastard was a good beating. 

So far…

It wouldn’t surprise Arthur for Colm to make an exception with him, just to get back at Dutch.  He needed to get the hell out before the thought crossed Colm’s mind.

Thankfully in the end it turned out to be rather easy.  Were all of Colm’s men fucking idiots? Even so weak and feverish he could barely stand or see straight, he managed to slit the throats of the bastards that had kidnapped, beat, and shot him. They’d even left his supplies and horse within easy reach. 

Idiots.  Not that he was complaining. 

“Take me home…” the soft plea to his horse was his last coherent thought for a long while.

 

* * *

 

He found John’s body in the dirt outside an old barn that had seen better days.  The man was riddled with dozens of bullet holes and covered in dark blood that had long gone dry.  It looked like the buzzards had already started pecking at him. His skin gray, thin and tight. The stink of rot just beginning to really set in as the body decomposed in the hot sun.

Arthur fell to his knees beside the dead man.  Tears streamed through the dust on his face from several days hard ride but still… he’d been too late.  Always too late.

John’s eyes… he had always loved John’s eyes… always so full of life, passion.  Simmering with too much anger at the world in their depths… but still… could be so warm and gentle under the right circumstances… Now they were flat and dull.  Dead eyes. He reached down, forcing the eyelids to close with infinite tenderness. His fingers lingered on John’s scarred cheek. 

Beside John’s limp hand was an old revolver.  One that Arthur recognized well, because he had given it John a long time ago, when he’d taught John how to shoot properly. John had kept it… after all these years. He'd always been sentimental that way.

Arthur picked up the gun.  It was nearly empty because John had gone down shooting.  Of course he had. That was the only way John Marston would ever go down.  But there was still one bullet left in the gun…

No more.  Never again.

Arthur closed his eyes, lifted the gun to his own temple, and pulled the trigger…

 

* * *

 

Arthur doesn’t remember making it back to camp or falling from his horse as the last of his energy is spent.  He doesn’t remember trying to explain to Dutch what happened, or being carried to his tent. He doesn’t remember Dutch, Hosea, and Pearson all having to hold him down as Reverend Swanson dug a bullet out of his leg and buckshot out of his shoulder.  He doesn’t remember screaming while they did so.

He doesn’t remember whispering John's name over and over as his fever spiked and his dreams became more vivid and horrifying.  Watching John being torn apart by wolves. Watching him bleed out in his arms. Watching John turn into a rotting corpse right in front of him. Unable to save him.  Unable to stop it. Unable to do anything.

Always too late.

Too late…


	3. Chapter 3

They’d been searching for Arthur for three days. 

Tracking the O’driscolls hadn’t been easy.  Charles had managed to pick up a trail from where they’d taken Arthur.  But the small group had joined up with a larger one, then split off again about a day down the road.  Because there was no way to tell which group had taken Arthur, they’d been forced to split up as well.  John, Lenny, and Charles took one path, Javier, Bill, and Micah took the other.

God damn Micah and his stupid ideas.  Peace with Colm O’driscoll? Was he out of his goddamn mind?  Now the bastard had Arthur. If anything… if that vile son of a bitch had done anything to Arthur… John was going to find Colm, reach down his throat,  and rip out his goddamn heart!

On the second day they ran into a group of O’driscolls.  Not the ones who’d taken Arthur, unfortunately. But that didn’t stop them from killing most of the bastards and interrogating the rest.  If one of them could tell them where Arthur had been taken, this would all be over a hell of a lot faster.

Unsurprisingly they denied knowing anything about Arthur, even while being tortured, which… was disappointing but not surprising.   Given how large the O'driscoll gang was, and most of them being dumb as horse shit, it wasn’t a surprise most of them didn’t know anything about Colm's plans. 

John wasn’t willing to give up though, and continued to beat the last O’driscoll within an inch of his life, demanding to know where they’d taken Arthur. 

“He’s dead!” the O’driscoll finally shouted around a mouthful of blood and John froze mid punch.  His entire body suddenly went cold. Colder than when he’d been lost on the mountain waiting to be eaten by wolves.  The O’driscoll laughed wetly, “Bastard got uppity so we taught him a lesson. Nice and long.  He screamed like a dying pig before we slit his throat.”

John saw red. He punched the O’driscoll so hard it shattered his nose.  The man began to choke on his own blood but John didn’t stop. He kept beating the man until he went limp in his grasp.  Then he continued to beat him until his face was barely recognizable as human. It took Lenny and Charles both to finally pull him off the dead man. 

“Enough!  He’s dead!  John, Stop!”  It wasn’t enough.  It would never be enough…

“He was lying! He knew we were going to kill him anyway, he was just trying to get a rise out of you, John,” Lenny’s calm voice finally started to pierce the fog of rage clouding John’s mind.  He knew it was probably true. Why would they go through the trouble of kidnapping Arthur if they were just going to kill him? But what if… “Come on, John. We’re wasting time. Arthur needs us.”

On the third day a big storm rolled through and destroyed any remains of the faint trail they’d been following.  John wanted to scream in frustration. Lenny and Charles wanted to go back to camp, to see if there was any new information.  John argued against it, of course, was half ready to keep searching on his own even though he was a terrible tracker. But Charles finally convinced him he’d do Arthur no good fumbling around in the wilderness directionless, and the others might know more at this point.  So… they’d gone back, even though it twisted his guts painfully. Felt like they were abandoning Arthur…

Turns out, Lenny and Charles were right.  Bill was on guard as they rode into camp and his first words to them were, “He’s back.”

That was all John needed to hear, and rode the rest of the way into camp at a near full gallop, and for once Miss Grimshaw didn’t chastise him about it.  At least he had enough sense left to leave his horse near the hitching post, but he still ran the rest of the way, and no one could have stopped him.

He wasn’t a complete idiot, no matter what the others said.  He knew Arthur would probably be in a bad way. But he still wasn’t quite prepared what he saw when he skidded to a stop at Arthur’s tent.

Arthur was shirtless.  Thick bandages were wrapped around his left shoulder and upper chest.  They looked like they’d been changed fairly recently, but ugly brown and yellow stains were already beginning to seep through them.  Arthur’s body was a horrible patchwork of black and blue, especially around his chest. If he had several broken ribs, John wouldn’t be surprised.  His face was also bruised and so swollen he was barely recognizable. He was bathed in sweat and his head tossed back and forth restlessly in his sleep.

“Oh, Arthur…” John’s throat felt so tight with emotion he could barely breathe.  Seeing Arthur like this made rage build in his gut, and he felt the insane urge to seek out Micah and Dutch and beat them both senseless for allowing this to happen.  Thankfully Abigail’s soft voice penetrated through the red haze clouding his judgement.

“He’s been asking for you,” she said, and John’s attention snapped to her as though seeing her for the first time.  She sat in the chair next to Arthur’s cot, staring at John with an unreadable expression.  The next moment she stood and moved away from the chair, giving him room, “You should sit with him a while, it might put him at ease.” 

Then she left.  John knew he should probably… say something.  Offer some kind of explanation.  Even though he and Arthur hadn’t meant anything to each other in _years_ … or maybe they’d both just been lying to themselves. 

“John…” Arthur’s weak voice snapped his attention immediately back to the older man.  John found himself moving towards him without thinking and sat down in the chair Abigail had vacated. No one seemed to be paying much attention to them, and if they were, John didn’t care anymore. Look where that had gotten him?  All these years he’d thought Arthur hated him. All this time he might have been wrong. He’d run off on Arthur once. Never again.

“I’m here, Arthur.  I’m here.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur knelt down on a small hill overlooking a run down ranch.  The sky was a sickly green and thick storm clouds gathered overhead, threatening to open up with torrential rain at any moment.  Ominous thunder rumbled in the distance.

But Arthur paid the approaching storm little mind.  His entire focus was on the wooden cross buried in the dirt bearing a simple inscription.

_John Marston_

_1873-1911_

_Loving Husband and Father_

_Blessed are the Peacemakers_

Arthur snorted in derision.  How fucking ironic…

He sighed heavily, his fingers gently brushing over the worn wood.  Faint splinters caught on his rough fingers, but he didn’t give a damn.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be John six feet under, and Arthur kneeling at his grave.   _He_ was the one who was supposed to die.  He would have. He would have given his life for John in an instant if he’d had the chance. 

Now he would never… never… He’d wasted so much goddamn time.  Wasted on pride. Wasted on fear. He’d never gotten the chance to tell John…

A single drop of water impacted the dry soil over the grave.  It wasn’t rainfall.

“John… I love you…” Arthur whispered.  The words barely left his lips before the ground underneath him opened up.  Arthur stumbled back with a cry of alarm as rotting claw-like fingers lunged at him.  He hit the ground with a gasp, and the rancid smell of decaying meat washed over him making him gag.  The corpse soon had him pinned to the ground with an unnatural strength. But that was not the most horrifying thing about what was happening.  The worst part was that he recognized the corpse. Even though the eyes staring down at him were nothing but empty sockets and most of the flesh had rotted away from it’s skull.

John…

“Arthur…” his name gurgled wetly in the thing’s throat.  Skeletal fingers closed around his neck as unyielding as iron. 

“No… NO!” Arthur croaked out, thrashing uselessly in it’s hold. He began to choke due to the crushing pressure around his throat.  He couldn’t breathe...

“Arthur!”

 

* * *

 

He’d fallen asleep.  John hadn’t meant to. But after three days with no rest even sitting up in the uncomfortable rickety chair hadn’t been enough to keep him from dozing off. At least he hadn’t fallen _out_ of the chair when he’d fallen asleep.  Small favors.

A small choked sound from the man in the cot next to him instantly drew his attention.  Another nightmare, and this one seemed even worse than the ones before. John pressed a hand to the older man’s forehead and hissed at the heat he felt.  Arthur's fever was climbing again. The dreams always seemed the worst when Arthur’s fever spiked.

John quickly reached for the cloth he’d been using before and dipped it into the pail of water next to the bed.  He’d probably need to go collect more soon, but he couldn’t leave now while Arthur was so distressed. He wiped the cool cloth across Arthur’s sweating forehead and face, all the while speaking in low soothing tones.  Much like Arthur had taught him how to calm a spooked horse.

“Hey, Arthur.  It’s all right.  You’ll be just fine.  Just a bad dream,” John tried, since his voice seemed to calm Arthur before.  This time, the sound of his voice only seemed to disturb the older man more. As Arthur began to thrash more violently, John was forced to abandon the cloth and grasp his good shoulder to keep Arthur from rolling right off the cot.  He caught Arthur’s flailing arm with his other hand, pinning it down to reduce the risk of Arthur reopening his wound. John thought briefly about calling out for some help. The rest of the camp was asleep at this time of night except for the lookouts.  But… no, he could handle this, “Easy, Arthur. Just take it easy. I’ve got you.”

“No… please… John…” Arthur whimpered… actually god damned whimpered… and it tore at John’s heart seeing Arthur like this.  Arthur was always so god damned stoic… it was actually kind of annoying. The man could probably get his leg chopped clean off, and wouldn't make a peep of complaint about it. John wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Arthur like this before… so vulnerable… he didn’t like it.  He couldn’t stand seeing Arthur scared and in pain like this. He wished there was something he could do to take it all away.

John shifted his hold on Arthur’s hand to thread their fingers together.  He leaned in close so Arthur could hear him better without John having to speak too loud and risk waking the whole camp. 

“Come on, Arthur.  You’re going to be just fine.  Little wound like this… and all the fuss you gave me about the wolves? This ain’t nothing…” John said softly, reaching up to brush some of Arthur’s hair away from his sweaty face. 

“John… no…”

“I’m here, Arthur… I ain’t going anywhere… not this time,” John tried again, and when he still got little response from the other man, he raised his voice a tad, “Arthur!”

Arthur’s eyes suddenly snapped open, which was a surprise.  An even bigger shock though was the sudden fist John got to the jaw.  God damn. Even half dead Arthur Morgan could punch like a sledgehammer. Good thing it was him sitting here and not one of the women.

John shook his head and turned his attention back to Arthur.  His eyes were definitely open. John hadn’t imagined that. Bloodshot and glazed. 

“Hey, Arthur?  You with me?” John asked softly, and Arthur’s gaze darted around wildly without seeming to see him.  But at least he wasn’t thrashing around quite so much. John took the opportunity to refresh the cloth and started wiping Arthur’s face with it again.  This seemed to calm the man even more and John sighed with relief.

“That’s it, now.  You’re going to be just fine.  I’m going to make sure of that,” John said, running the cool cloth a little ways down Arthur’s chest for good measure.  He gently squeezed the fingers still tangled in his own, and he was surprised when he felt a squeeze back. He knew he shouldn’t get so emotional about it.  Arthur was far beyond coherent thanks to the fever. Probably had no idea who was with him right now. But that didn’t stop John’s throat from growing tight, and on a whim he leaned down to press a soft kiss to Arthur’s forehead.  Much like he’d seen Abigail do to Jack whenever he was ill.

When he drew back though, Arthur’s eyes were actually focused on him for the first time, and John froze in place. 

“John…” Arthur whispered.  John swallowed, hard.

“Yeah, Arthur?”

A long moment passed. 

“I’m gonna throw up,” Arthur finally said, and it took a moment for the words to make sense.  Then John cursed and grabbed for an empty bucket that had been left there just for that purpose.  John winced in sympathy as Arthur heaved over the side of the cot, gently rubbing the other man’s shaking shoulders and back. 

Once he was done, John helped Arthur rinse his mouth and even take a few sips of water, before getting him settled once more on the cot.  He refreshed the cloth and placed it back on Arthur’s forehead, and the older man sighed with relief. His eyes slipped closed again, and John knew it wouldn’t be long before Arthur was asleep again.  He knew Arthur probably wouldn’t remember any of this but…

“When you’re feeling better, we really need to talk…” John said softly.  He wasn’t really expecting a response, so he was a bit surprised when he got one.

“Okay…”

A moment later, Arthur was out like a light, snoring softly.  While Arthur was resting peacefully, John took the opportunity to empty both buckets and refill one with fresh cold water.  When he returned, he found himself taking Arthur’s hand again without really thinking about it.  He didn't release it again till morning.


	4. Chapter 4

When Arthur woke, he felt like he’d been hit by a train. 

There wasn’t an inch of him that didn’t feel bruised in one way or another.  His throat felt dry as a desert, and his lips were cracked. He tried to swallow and it hurt.  Everything hurt. His brain felt stuffed with cotton, and it was difficult to focus on anything.  The faint morning sunlight felt like small shards of glass stabbing into his eyes, so he wisely kept them shut.  Instead allowing his other senses (even as muddled as they were) to tell him where he was.

He could hear chickens clucking happily as they hunted for bugs among the grass.  Voices that spoke in hushed tones, in deference to the early hour. The smell of coffee and porridge made his stomach grumble unhappily, informing him that it had been a while since his last meal. Underneath that, the familiar scent cigar smoke drifting on the wind was surprisingly comforting. Two men laughed, too loudly, disturbing the peace of the morning, and Miss Grimshaw gave them a stern scolding for it. 

Arthur smiled in relief, despite how horrible he felt. 

He was home… at least… he hoped he was.  He hoped this wasn’t all another elaborate fever dream.  Given how much pain he was in he was pretty sure he was awake… but he couldn’t be sure.  He might have pinched himself to prove he was awake, but realized quickly that he couldn’t move his hand.  Something warm, and a little heavy, was was holding it firmly in place.

Frowning in confusion, Arthur risked carefully prying his eyes open.  They didn’t want to cooperate. His vision swam in and out of focus, and his head pounded.  He felt like he was spinning like a top even though he knew he was lying still. As he struggled to focus, he began to realize other things.  Like another, heavier, weight pressed against his legs. The sound of someone snoring softly nearby. A familiar sound, but a lot closer than he was used to. 

He finally managed to make out the shape of someone slumped over in a chair beside his cot.  Near bent in half, a position that had to be uncomfortable, they were using Arthur’s hip as a pillow.  It was their hand was what was trapping his own. Big hands. Roughly callused. Warm.

Blinking in confusion, Arthur finally managed to untangle his fingers from the other’s.  Then, almost against his will, he found himself reaching out to trace the features of the person resting against his leg. Rough dark stubble scratched against his fingertips and his thumb traced over the texture of newly scarred skin, further confirming his suspicions.  The man sleeping on him murmured softly in response but didn’t wake and Arthur found his fingers drifting into the long, surprisingly soft, hair that spilled over his thigh. 

“John?” maybe he was still dreaming after all.  If he was… well… this definitely wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was actually kind of nice.  Much better than the horrifying nightmares that lurked just at the edges of his memory. He shivered just thinking about them. 

Yes, this was better. 

His thumb ghosted softly over the bow of John’s lips.  The skin was a little dry, but still soft. It was all too easy to remember what it was like to kiss those lips.  What they had felt like against his skin in intimate places. How much he wished to feel them again… even after…

John’s face scrunched up and he snuffled adorably in his sleep.  Though he looked peaceful now, he had dark circles under his eyes and seemed a little paler than usual.  When exactly was the last time John had gotten a decent night's sleep? Or eaten? A while by the look of it.  No wonder he seemed so dead to the world.

Arthur’s fingers found their way back into John’s hair, combing through the dark strands tenderly.  John hummed softly in his sleep. The sound almost like a purr. After a few moments of petting, eventually John’s eyes fluttered and slowly opened, blinking at him sleepily. 

“Mornin,” Arthur managed, his voice barely above a croaked whisper, rough with disuse. 

“Arthur? What are you…” John was slow to realize what was going on, but when he did he straightened up sharply, almost falling out of the chair.  His eyes darted behind them towards the rest of the camp with obvious nervousness.

“What are you doing?!” he finally asked in a hissed whisper. 

“I dunno…” Arthur admitted, shrugging slightly, and then winced when the movement pulled at his shoulder.  A frown appeared on John’s lips as the younger man turned his attention back to Arthur fully. Arthur felt the insane urge to kiss it away. 

“Are you feeling alright?” John asked worriedly, scooting closer and pressing his hand to Arthur’s forehead.  He made a sound that didn’t seem too pleased, “You’re not as warm as before, but still not good.”

Arthur hummed and shrugged again, this time making sure to only use his good shoulder.  He turned his face into John’s touch and heard the younger man’s breath catch.

“It’s nice… waking up with you… wish it could have been like this the first time…” Arthur murmured, and John made a choking sound.

“Arthur! You can’t just…Not here!” John whispered in protest, and Arthur frowned in irritation.

“You’re the one who _wanted_ to talk!” he snapped, a little louder than before, and John glanced around nervously again.  Though no one seemed to be paying attention to them… yet.

“Alright, alright, we can talk.  Just… quietly… I can’t believe you even remember that…” John murmured, leaning in closer so that Arthur could hear him. 

“If that’s what you were hoping for, sorry to disappoint you.  Again,” Arthur grumbled. John looked like Arthur had just sucker punched him.

“Arthur… I... That’s not…” John started to protest.  Arthur snapped.

“Why did you _leave_?!” he tried to shout, but instead his voice caught in his dry throat and he started coughing instead.  John looked like he didn’t know what to do or say for a moment, before he quickly reached for a cup and helped Arthur to take a few sips of water.  Soothing his throat. Arthur slumped exhausted against the younger man when he was done, trying to catch his breath, “Why… just… why?”

“Arthur… we should really talk about this when you’re feeling…”

“We’re talking now!”

“Christ! All right… just… quiet down, _please_ ...” John hissed, then moved to ease Arthur back to lay on the cot.  But Arthur grabbed a handful John’s shirt to prevent him from doing so and John heaved a defeated sigh. 

“I was... scared… alright?” John finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Scared?  Of what?”

“Of you. Me. What we did.  What you’d do when you realized… what I’d done to you,” John admitted.

“What do you mean, what you _did_ ? You didn’t do anything that I…” At the look on John’s face, Arthur paused, then asked incredulously, “Did it _seem_ like I was _unwilling_?”

“At the time? No.  But you weren’t exactly in your right mind.  Neither was I for that matter. And in the morning I realized…” John’s voice trailed off, but Arthur wasn’t willing to let this go now that they were finally talking about it. 

“Realized _what_ ?” he hissed angrily. 

“That… it weren’t me… that you really wanted to be with…” John whispered and that… wasn’t what Arthur had been expecting.  He blinked up at John with utter confusion.

“What the hell are you even talking about, Marston.”

“I… you... you talk in your sleep…” John said, looking embarrassed.  Guilty. Like a kicked puppy. If Arthur was stronger, he might have punched (or kissed) the look right off Marston’s face.  Now, all he could do was sigh in exasperation.

“You’re telling me… you left… for whole goddamn year… because of something I said… when I was _asleep_?!”

John actually flinched.

“I told you… I was scared…” John replied, his voice small, “I’m sorry… the last thing… I wanted to do, was hurt you… I swear.”

The confession was painful to hear, and Arthur realized this might go far deeper than what had happened that night.  He remembered how worried John had been about _hurting_ him.  Arthur had figured that concern had just been inexperience, because Marston hadn’t been with a man before.  It had been one of the reasons why Arthur had offered to let John fuck him instead of the other way around. Now he wondered if he’d been wrong.  If It hadn’t been _inexperience…_ but too _much_ experience, _bad_ experience, that had made John so twitchy that night.  The idea made him feel sick to his stomach.

And the irony of it was, in trying _not_ to hurt him, John had hurt him far more deeply than he would ever realize.  All because somehow the fool had gotten it into his head that he had taken him against his will…

Christ…

“You’re a goddamn idiot, Marston,” Arthur whispered, but it was more resigned than angry.  John let out a slightly shaky laugh at that.

“Yeah, I know… what else is new?” John murmured, “But tell me honestly.  If we hadn’t been piss drunk that night, would it ever have happened?”

Arthur opened his mouth, but ended up closing it again without saying anything.  He honestly didn’t know. Before that night, he’d never really thought of John that way.  John had just been a kid when he joined the gang, and Arthur had seen him as more a little brother than anything.  John definitely weren’t a kid anymore and after that night… well… he’d done his best to never think of John that way again, because it hurt so damned much.  Easier said than done.

John gave him a long look and nodded. 

“Thought so,” he said sadly, “You ain’t exactly… Hell, we probably wouldn’t even be talking _now_ if you weren’t still feverish.” 

The sad part was, Marston was probably right.  It was no secret that Arthur had a pretty bad temper.  Was prone to let his fists, or guns, settle things rather than words.  He supposed John’s… concern… wasn’t entirely unjustified. Even if the idea that John had been so _afraid_ of him then… that he had run away for a whole damn year rather than just talk to him.  That might just be worse than believing John had run away because he’d been ashamed or disgusted by what they’d done. 

Arthur hadn’t exactly given John much reason to think differently of him since then, had he?

“I guess… that’s it then,” Arthur finally murmured softly. 

“Is it?”

“Well, nothing’s changed, has it?  It weren’t nothing more than a stupid drunken mistake-” John opened his mouth but Arthur plowed on before he could say anything, “-Not to mention, you’ve got a family.  Abigail and Jack… Probably best for everyone if we just… forget it ever happened.”

John was quiet for a long time, a look on his face Arthur couldn’t quite define.  Honestly, John was right. He was too damned tired right now for this… but they probably wouldn’t have talked any other way.  At least… now Arthur knew. He knew he wouldn’t like the answer, and he was right. But now maybe… he could put it behind him, finally.

“If that’s… what you really want…” John finally murmured. 

“Probably best…” Arthur repeated, and the younger man sighed heavily.

“Yeah…” It was really amazing how one syllable could make Arthur feel like he’d been kicked in the gut, “Are you… are you hungry?”

Arthur wasn’t, but he jumped on the opportunity to change the subject.

“A bit,” he replied, and John nodded.  He helped Arthur lay down again, and this time Arthur let him.  After John walked away Arthur did his best to make sure he was composed when the man returned.  Somehow he wasn’t surprised when it wasn’t John, but Tilly, who returned with a small bowl of porridge for him for breakfast. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed the story, please consider leaving kudos. If you didn't, please consider letting me know why, so I can improve my writing overall. Thank you :)


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